


Habits of Bruce Wayne

by Batsymomma11



Series: Blark Files [12]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Habits, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 01:06:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17376623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Five habits Clark has observed over the years of being married to Bruce.





	Habits of Bruce Wayne

**Author's Note:**

> I did a rough edit, but I probably missed a few mistakes, so forgive me. Also, thank you for the outpouring of love over Habits of Clark Kent. It was such a treat to read all of those. Ya'll are the best. Thank you. 
> 
> Now available in Chinese! Copy and paste the link here: http://junchangliu.lofter.com/post/1ea8acdc_12d99bb68 Thank you Changliu for your hard work in getting this translated. 
> 
> **originally posted as rated Teen, then realized I still used an F-bomb and a few smutty things. So, yeah, Mature it is. 
> 
> I do not own DC or its characters. I do own this story. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and enjoy!

  1. **Skipping Meals**



 

            It was rare when Clark didn’t catch Bruce skipping a meal.

            Bruce wasn’t just stubborn about the whole ordeal, he was outrageous. If he thought for one moment, someone was trying to coerce him, he’d come out with claws bared. If he even smelled a whiff of someone trying to force him to consume even one calorie more than he wanted to—Bruce would clam up and eat nothing. Strictly out of principle. But Bruce’s perpetual idiocy when it came to meals, wasn’t what worried Clark.

            What worried Clark endlessly, was how _often_ Bruce skipped meals.

            Bruce was a solid two-hundred and ten pounds on any given day. Clark could say the exact ratio of fat to muscle, water-weight, and fractures in Bruce’s skeletal structure. If anyone knew Bruce’s body and how it functioned and what it needed, it was Clark. Clark could see when Bruce’s blood sugar dropped too low. He would know if Bruce was lying about feeling under the weather or lightheaded, because Clark was so attuned to Bruce. All Clark needed to do was merely look at Bruce to find blood pressure, respiration, and heart rate.

            Such realities annoyed Bruce.

            So, most often, Clark kept his findings and what he knew to himself. There was no need to cause problems unless Bruce was being dangerous. And usually, he wasn’t. Sure, he skipped meals when he should be eating them. He drank protein shakes far more than he actually consumed real food. But Bruce wasn’t too thin, and he worked out in correlation to his calorie intake, not usually one to push beyond his limits. Bruce was generally careful.

            Until he wasn’t.

            Those were the times that Clark was duly elected to say something. To coerce, threaten, cajole, and/or torture into eating ‘ _Something, Master Clark. Anything.’_

            Now, was one of those times.

            Bruce was sitting with his laptop propped on his legs and was scribbling notes furiously on a familiar legal pad that had seen better days, when Clark found him. There was a coffee stain on the corner and what could very possibly have been a bit of blood marking the cover. Clark didn’t like to think about it.

            The legal pad stayed. They’d previously had discussions about it and Clark already had one battle on his hands to deal with.

            It was no surprise that Bruce had holed up in the study with piles of books surrounding him and the lights dimmed down so low it had to be bad for his eyes. He also should have been using his readers, but obviously had given up on them some time ago. Clark could see the black frames hiding beneath a few balled up pieces of paper. Bruce’s hair was standing on end and he looked a little manic when his glaze finally flickered off the glowing blue screen and caught sight of Clark standing there.  

            “Oh,” Bruce murmured, adjusted on the sofa so he wasn’t slumped, “What time is it?”

            “It’s late. About ten.”

            Bruce blinked, glanced down at his wrist watch and tapped the glass. “I guess I just—lost track of time.”

            “Working on a case?”

            That much was obvious. Bruce was in full research mode. The state of him would have been testament enough without the other signs of a good ole fashioned information binge. Bruce had been pouring through his library, assorting books in the most useful order, filling reams of notes out, and printing off pages to be added to the book sources. After all the years they’d been working together, Clark was intimately acquainted with the stages of Bruce’s case work. This was the frenzied gathering phase, usually followed closely by the hunting phase which often lead to long nights, little to no sleep, and a few fights about taking better care of himself.

            “Yes,” Bruce scrubbed both hands down his face, “yes it’s a little complex actually.”

            “I don’t need the details right now. I know you’re tired. I just came in to tell you to close up shop for the night. You need to eat something.”

            Bruce’s face, for all its regal aristocracy, went from slightly haggard and distracted to an absolutely sour toddler in a flash. It took a great deal of effort not to smile in response.

            “Yes, you heard me right. You need to be done. And you need to eat. Alfred said you haven’t eaten anything all day. You’ve been too busy working. Which is fine, but now you need to eat something.”

            “Clark—” Bruce’s jaw was working, the muscles jumping under the skin at a fast tick, “I don’t appreciate being treated like a child.”

            “I’m merely looking out for you.”

            “I can look out for myself.”

            “Excellent, then I won’t have to carry you to the dining room. I made you a ham and swiss sandwich. You’ll love it.”

            “I don’t like ham.”

            “Yes, you do. I saw you eat one a month ago.”

            “Clark, that’s ridiculous. Besides, I’m not hungry and I have too much work to do still. I can’t just stop in the middle—” Bruce stiffened as Clark took a threatening step closer, “Just, goddamn it—just give me a second to organize this.”

            Clark allowed Bruce exactly five minutes to arrange his notes, close and shutdown the laptop, and add a few more jotted down bits before closing in. Despite the sour circumstances of their reunion, Bruce was warm and soft and Clark took advantage to kiss him deeply in greeting when he finally had his husband’s full attention.

            “Hello,” Clark grinned, drawing back to see Bruce’s mouth try and chase after. “I’m so happy to see you my dear sweet husband. How’s your day been?”

            Bruce frowned, “Fine. Yours?”

            Clark smirked, “Wonderful. Let’s go eat and talk all about it.”

            Bruce only ate half of the sandwich, but did end up agreeing to a bowl of ice cream, which he also only ate partially. His brain was still busy, whirring away over the data he’d been collecting, which meant nutrient consumption was the last thing on his mind. Clark let him sink into his thoughts until he was finished cleaning up the kitchen, then he took Bruce’s hand and steered them for the stairs.

            Bruce _sank_ into their bed once they’d stripped and Clark gladly joined him.

            “I missed you today.”

            Bruce’s eyes were closed, but his mouth curved. “I missed you too.”

            “Liar. You were too busy working a case to even think about eating, let alone miss me.”

            Bruce opened one eye, “I’m always thinking about you. There is a part of my mind that belongs solely to Clark Kent.”

            “Is that so?” Clark hummed, notching his nose into Bruce’s neck to inhale Bruce’s skin. He smelled like home. Warmth and bergamot. Soft.

            “’s so.”

            “Sleepy?”

            “Mmm.”

            Clark curled his arms around Bruce, settled in more heavily for the night. “Tomorrow, you eat a full breakfast before getting back to work.”

            “Clark—” the whine in Bruce’s voice was unmistakable and absolutely adorable.

            “No arguing.”

            There were a few more grumbling words. A couple insults. Then Bruce went slack and started snoring. Clark let it lull him to sleep too. Another battle, for another day.

 

 

 

  1. **Obsessively Cleaning When Stressed**



 

 

            Bruce cleaned when he was stressed.

            If there was a business merger on the line worth millions or even billions of dollars, if there was a case the Bat was particularly troubled with or Bruce was fighting with one of the boys—their bathroom would be spotless. Their bedroom would be so clean you could eat off the floor. Everything would smell like antiseptic, bleach, and 409 anywhere Bruce went.

            If Clark got home from work and smelled the acidic tang of bleach in the air, with Alfred nowhere in sight, he knew Bruce was having a problem.

            Years of experience led Clark to check their bedroom first. Bruce usually started his cleaning ministrations there. He’d go at the grout in the shower with a toothbrush and clean it until it was so white it hurt to look at. He did the same with the flooring, around the toilet, behind the sink.

            As far as Bruce was concerned, nothing was clean enough. Perfect enough. Blemish-free enough.

            Their bedroom usually got the royal treatment. Shampooing carpeting, dusting, washing bedding, wiping windows till they gleamed. If Bruce hadn’t worked out his frustrations in their space, he usually attacked Damian’s bedroom. Or Tim’s. Tim’s was the worst in the house. If he was willing to go at the frightening mass of things in Timothy’s bedroom, then Bruce was likely about to fall over dead from stress.

            Shortly after their fourth anniversary, Clark found Bruce seated on the bathroom floor angrily scrubbing at a patch of tile that had never done anything wrong but exist. Any sort of dirt or grime was long gone, but Bruce was still scrubbing, madly. His hands were red and chapped from the chemicals and his arms were shaking, but Bruce looked determined to clean all night, if needs be.

            Clark had already been informed by Alfred that Bruce had been cleaning for a solid six hours.

            “Hey B. You alright?”

            “Fine.”

            Clark nodded, moved to sit on the closed toilet seat lid. His nose burned from the chemicals lingering in the air. “You should probably open a window. You might get lightheaded.”

            “Sure. Whatever.”

            Clark stood, opened the window above the claw foot tub, then walked back in their bedroom to open the windows there too. Bruce had already cleaned in there. The carpet was damp, and the bed made neat as a pin. If there was dust, Clark couldn’t see it.

            A handful of minutes later, Clark came back into the bathroom dressed in sweats and a t-shirt. He propped his feet up on the edge of the tub and watched Bruce clean for thirty minutes. They said nothing to each other, nor did they really need to. If Bruce wanted to talk, he would. If he didn’t, he’d keep cleaning and then he’d finally come to bed. The next day, it would be like nothing happened. He’d have gotten over it.

            Clark didn’t think it was the healthiest option for dealing with stress, but it was something Bruce had been doing for so long, that it comforted the man. When Bruce felt out of control, he took it back with both hands, and a cleaning brush at the ready.

            “I think Alfred has dinner ready.”

            Bruce looked up, swiped at his sweaty forehead, “I’m not really hungry.”

            “That’s fine. I could bring you a plate when I’m done, and you could eat up here? If you don’t want to come down.”

            Bruce hesitated, the brush skidding out from under the heel of hand, “Maybe.”

            “Just in case.”

            “Alright. That’s fine.”

            Clark left to eat. He made up a plate and said goodnight to Alfred. He joked with Damian and asked about Tim, who was working on studying for finals in his bedroom. He’d chosen to skip dinner too.

            Clark didn’t mind. He liked the quiet in the manor.

            When Clark came back up to their bedroom, warm plate in hand, Bruce was at the edge of the bathroom floor, where carpet met tile, sitting in the doorway. His eyes were closed, mouth parted, face slack.

He was sleeping.

With a tooth brush hanging loosely in one hand, a bottle of scrubbing bubbles, and bloody knuckles.

            Clark shook his head, ruffling Bruce’s hair to wake him.

            Bruce snapped upright and blinked blearily. “Sorry. Must’ve fallen ‘sleep.”

            “Yeah. Come on, let me get your hands cleaned up. They look awful.”

            Bruce glanced down at his knuckles and frowned, “They don’t hurt.”

            “They should.”

            Clark washed them off with warm soapy water, dried them, was tempted to bandage them, but didn’t because of Bruce’s sour expression. Instead, he toted Bruce back to bed, handed him that plate of food he’d brought up, then flicked on the TV to watch BBC. Bruce ate quietly, scooted closer about ten minutes in, and leaned on Clark’s shoulder, absently putting bite after bite into his mouth while he watched the screen.

            “Dick and I had a fight.”

            “I’m sorry to hear that.”

            Bruce shrugged, dropped his fork on the now mostly empty plate. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on him.”

            “He loves you.”

            Bruce put the plate aside, nestled into Clark’s chest and slung an arm over his belly. “Distract me.”

            Clark grinned, “BBC isn’t distracting enough for you?”

            Bruce made a sound like a growl, but Clark cut it off a little too quickly to be sure by swallowing the noise with a messy kiss. Bruce responded easily, a flower opening to the sun. He sighed into the kiss, arched and mumbled a few coveted ‘pleases’. Wherever Clark touched or teased, Bruce was quick to show how good it felt. How happy he was Clark was there with him.

            It was quicker than Clark had anticipated, a little more harried and desperate, but good. Always good to have Bruce under him, around him, with him. Clark savored every inch of Bruce’s skin and Bruce happily let himself be unwound.

            When Clark fell asleep to the smell of bleach still clinging to Bruce’s hands and arms, it made him smile.

 

 

 

  1. **Sleeping In**



            It was not merely a habit. It was a religion.

            Bruce slept in till noon, every day. Weekday, weekend, or holiday. He slept till noon unless otherwise dictated by the rare official meeting at WE or a Justice League crisis. Otherwise, no one dared enter the bedroom and rouse the beast for fear of recourse. The boys all knew this. But Clark, above anyone else, was well-aware of Bruce’s sleeping habits.

            He was also the most prone to break the rule. And the one most likely to get away with it. Sure, Clark knew that Bruce would almost always spit and hiss like a feral cat if he was woken without a damn good reason, but occasionally, it was worth it. Occasionally, the prize was worth the thorns.

            Sunrises over the Pacific were such an occasion.

            Breakfast on Sacajawea Peak in the Rockies were as well.

            Skinny dipping in Glacier National Park in water so cold it would steal your breath was worth it to Clark. Over the years, he’d stolen countless moments with Bruce, all at the cost of ruining a perfectly harmless habit.

            It was eight-thirty-three in the morning, the sun was struggling to make its way up over the smog already stifling Gotham and Glacier National Park was calling to him. The Park would be on mountain time, so they’d be two hours behind. If they left in the next five minutes, he and Bruce could make sunrise. He could smell the clean crystal water if he closed his eyes. He could hear the birds and see the trees opening like a curtain on the mountains. And he wanted Bruce right beside him.

            It had been six months, two weeks, and one day since Clark had dared interrupt Bruce’s sleep. Clark figured he’d been saving up for this.

            Instead of trying to rouse Bruce at home, Clark quietly scooped him up, adjusted so Bruce’s head was tucked under his chin and flew them there first. The flight was quiet, soft and warm. Summer was in full bloom in the states and Clark loved the smells of it. The sights. Bruce made a disgruntled noise in his sleep and shifted to get more comfortable and Clark held him tighter, pressing kisses to Bruce’s forehead.

            By the time Clark dropped down at the lake’s edge, Bruce was wide-eyed and blinking rapidly, his mouth opening and closing like he was about to start saying something but couldn’t manage. Then he turned red and whirled on Clark.

            “What the hell, Clark?”

            “Surprise?” Clark hunched his shoulders, “Sorry, not sorry? Look around you Bruce. Look at where we are.”

            “I have eyes you idiot. Of course, I can see!”

            “There’s no need to call names.”

            Bruce’s bare toes curled on the dirt, his hands fisting, “Clark—Clark I’m really trying—I’m not happy.”

            “Yes, I know,” Clark soothed, stepping nearer again now that the worst of the anger was over. He didn’t want Bruce to break a hand on his face over a minor loss in judgement. “But look,” Clark pointed over the peak of a mountain. The sliver of orange disc breaking the tip was brilliant. It filled Clark’s chest to bursting and made him want to dance, to spin in circles till he was dizzy and throw up.

            Bruce—looked a lot less inspired.

            But, he didn’t look nearly as pissed either. Clark took it as a win.

           “It’s—nice.”

           Clark smirked, “It’s stunning and you know it. Come on, I want to do this while we have the lake to ourselves.”

           “Do what?”

            Clark dragged Bruce to the edge of the water and started undressing. When Bruce’s face scrunched up and then he scrambled back from the shoreline, Clark started to laugh and couldn’t stop.

           “Oh, come on, Bruce. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

            “That’s glacier water. It’s freezing.”

            “I know. It’ll be fun. Come on. Do this for me. You’ll never forget it.”

            Bruce grimaced, “How could I? My balls are likely to fall off.”

            “Hah,” Clark dropped his drawers and stretched naked as the day he was born before turning to Bruce, “Do I need to help you?”

            “No.”

            When Clark didn’t budge, and Bruce realized he was never leaving until he at least dipped a toe into the water, he followed suit and stripped to skin. Naked, hand in hand, Clark played like they were going to walk slowly, but then quickly dropped the pretense and tore into the water, dragging Bruce all the way in with him.

             Bruce came up for air like he was dying, gasping and sputtering, and Clark laughed till he couldn’t breathe. Bruce didn’t start laughing until he crawled back onto the dirt and began to shiver wildly. The laugh came out of him like a hyena cackling. 

            “Crazy-ass alien.”

            Clark hooted and shot off deeper into the lake. This, this snapshot with Bruce, was worth it.

 

 

 

  1. **Coffee**



            The way to Bruce’s heart was coffee.

            Many had tried with other methods, but all were doomed to fail. Coffee was the real way to get on the man’s good side. He drank it morning, noon, and night. It didn’t matter if he’d already had three pots of coffee, if you brought him a cup, he’d still drink it.

            Bruce usually drank his coffee black, but he’d take it with cream or sugar. With syrups, whipped cream, and sprinkles. He drank all coffee indiscriminately. The man loved coffee. And if someone got between Bruce and his first cup of coffee of the day, so help them. Because hellfire and damnation were about to rain down upon them.

            Bruce’s habit of drinking coffee, pretty much twenty-four seven, was so ingrained, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. To stop, might make the world end. Or at least, Clark liked to imagine that was something which went through Bruce’s OCD brain when he was sipping on his fourth or eighth cup of the day.

            Clark didn’t mind all the caffeine consumption. For himself, it unfortunately didn’t do anything to him. Neither did alcohol. But he did join Bruce in the first cup of the day, simply because he liked the taste of it. Though he liked it with lots of sugar and cream—always. He never took it black like Bruce. Bruce balked at Clark’s creamer consumption and griped about how Clark could eat anything he wanted and not gain a single pound. Which was true. But Bruce was hardly one to complain.

            He stayed just on the right side of perfect. Almost too lean. And even though some of that was because of Bruce’s poor eating habits, some of it was also purely because the man had been gifted with an excellent metabolism.

              Coffee and Bruce had become so synonymous over the years, that Clark never showed up empty handed if he dropped in on Bruce at WE. He always got two of whatever he was getting if Clark was on his way to a JLA meeting and stopped to get coffee first. Bruce always took the cup, smiled secretly for Clark, and drank the whole thing. Coffee made Bruce happy, so Clark was happy to feed his never-ending habit.

            It wasn’t until Kyle, the new Green Lantern, brought Bruce a cup of coffee during his first official meeting with the JLA that Clark realized bringing Bruce his coffee—was Clark’s thing. And no one else’s. That perhaps, he was a little possessive over the task.

            Bruce drank his gifted cup of coffee, discussed pros and cons of updating security, welcomed Kyle to the JLA and hoped his work as Green Lantern would keep him in our sector for years to come. Clark silently watched Bruce and kept a wary eye on Kyle.

            An hour later, Clark was at Bruce’s side and they were walking to the zeta tubes, preparing to go home.

            “You’re quiet.”

            Clark blinked up, “Am I?”

            “Yes. You’ve been talking for months about Kyle joining the League. You were one of the loudest voices calling for it.”

            “I was,” Clark nodded, keeping his expression neutral.

            “Then why do you look like you’ve had your puppy kicked?”

            “I do not—” Clark stopped, scowled at Bruce then shrugged, “It’s stupid.”

            “Tell me.”

            “It’s—well I’m the one who usually brings you—” Clark sighed, feeling more embarrassed the longer this was drawing out. He was being ridiculous, “I bring you coffee. Nobody else usually.”

            Bruce expression was harder to read behind the cowl.

            “You do,” Bruce smiled pleasantly, hooking his arms with Clark as they stepped onto the platform, “And it always tastes better when you’re the one that brings it.”

            Clark shook his head, impossibly pleased with Bruce, even if there was a knowing smirk on that handsome mouth. “I’m hopeless.”

            “No,” Bruce stretched up, kissed Clark soundly, “You’re just right.”

  

             

 

  1. **Sticky Notes**



 

            Bruce liked to write just about everything on sticky notes.

            Something added to the grocery list? A sticky note. Grab your lunch from the fridge? Sticky note. Dire note of emergency importance? Sticky note.

            For the last decade, Clark had been getting messages left for him on the bathroom mirror, in his car, in the kitchen, stuck to the orange juice in the fridge. Anywhere Bruce thought Clark might see it.

            Bruce wasn’t a demanding person. Actually, he was quite the opposite. He was so undemanding that he often slipped away and forgot he wasn’t alone. He was extremely introspective and often got lost in his thoughts, which meant he didn’t usually need someone or something, other than—himself.

            So, if Bruce asked Clark to pick up more eggs at the grocery store on an electric pink sticky note taped by his keys, Clark did it.

            If Bruce asked for Clark to check in with Dick about weekend barbecue plans, Clark did it. No questions asked. No wondering why Bruce couldn’t do it himself. Because Bruce would never ask if he didn’t have a reason and Clark trusted Bruce. Implicitly.

            Around a month into dating Bruce, Clark was given his first sticky note love letter. Bruce was a man of few words, so it shouldn’t have surprised Clark in the least that Bruce’s idea of a love letter, was a couple words scribbled on a square the size of a palm. But it did. At first. Clark kept the note, pulled it out and read it till it was crinkly with use.

            It only said, _I could get lost in your eyes._

            A little poetic. A little corny. Clark treasured the note and stashed it in a box.

            When Bruce kept up the tradition and made love letter sticky notes a true habit, Clark was over the moon. Bruce hid them in odd places. When they were dating, they’d be in his desk drawer, inside his lunch bag, between folders in his briefcase. Clark’s stash of love notes grew and each one became more in depth, more meaningful, softer. Each one was like looking into Bruce Wayne’s chest and seeing _everything_.

            They didn’t talk about the notes.

That was the strange part. Clark never brought up the sticky notes in the beginning because he was scared of putting Bruce off. Bruce had been skittish enough as what was, in the beginnings of their relationship. But over the years, neither of them mentioned anything about Bruce leaving the notes, and Clark collecting them—so it became a little bit of a game.

            Bruce hid them everywhere.

            Clark could go days without finding one, then one day, find three in a row.

            _I love you_

            _I respect everything about you_

            _I am yours, forever and always_

            Those were usually the best. But Clark always, always got a kick out of it when Bruce was feeling horny and decided to write a love message. Because it was invariably about sex. And they were usually done in the most crass or absurdly trite way possible. The pick-up lines were Clark’s favorite.

            _Your ass is out of this world_

            _If you were a tree, I’d climb you_

Or a favorite, from when Bruce left a trail of sticky notes all the way up to their bedroom one night, _When you find me, be ready to fuck_.

            Some of Bruce’s messages were less than subtle. Some of them weren’t. Clark had an assortment of years-worth of sticky’s in varying colors. Worn out and wrinkled from him reading and re-reading them. When Clark was missing Bruce, he pulled them out. When they’d had a fight and he needed to be reminded of how much he loved his husband, Clark dragged them out too.

            Standing on their balcony, drenched in moonlight and the scent of fresh-cut grass, Clark picked up a new sticky-note and felt a pang in his chest.

            _I’m on the roof. I need you._

In many ways, Bruce’s odd affinity for the sticky note, had been one of the threads that had sewn them together. Bruce’s need to share himself, but in a discreet quiet way, had been one of the things Clark loved best. Sticky notes had been a habit that had drawn them together more times than Clark could count.

            He flew to the roof and found Bruce perched by a chimney, his back pressed into the brick, bare feet gripping the shingles for balance.

            Clark sat wordlessly beside his husband, draped a warm arm over the broad shoulders beside him, and waited. Bruce was a man who liked pauses and spaces. Who liked someone who respected his need for that.

            “How many sticky notes do you suppose I’ve gone through over the years?”

            Clark shrugged, “A million. You write everything on them.”

            Bruce pressed his side into Clark’s, “How many of them have been love notes?”

            Clark lifted a brow, “Well over half. Why?”

            “Just curious. Your box is full. You’ll need a new one.”

            “Yes,” Clark smiled, carding a hand through Bruce’s hair. It felt like silk on his palm. “I can’t bear to part with any of them. So, I’ll need a new box. Unless you decide you’re done doing them.”

            “No,” Bruce’s voice sounded thick, hoarse, “No I won’t ever be done.”

            Clark bit his lip, struggled to keep quiet then gave up, “B, sweetheart, talk to me. Tell me what’s hurting you.”

            “I don’t think—” Bruce bit out the words, pressed even tighter to Clark’s side, “I don’t think I can explain it.”

            “Alright, then what does it feel like?”

            Bruce’s shoulders shook, his back bowed, and Clark could hear the tears tracking down those cheeks. His heart clutched painfully in his chest.

            “Awful.”

            “Is it work?”

            Bruce cried silently. He’d never been one to make noise. But he also rarely cried. It wasn’t his mode of operation. When he was feeling down or emotional, he hid. He didn’t ask Clark into the fold of tears very often. Clark on the other hand, was a weeper. He cried during Hallmark movies and wasn’t ashamed of it in the least.

            “Jason,” the word was muffled by Clark’s shirt, but it brought understanding and a whole new ache to Clark’s chest. “We—we saw each other on patrol. We had a moment.”

            “Did you fight?” Clark tensed, immediately concerned about Bruce being injured. They’d had so many arguments over the last years since Jason’s return. So many bloody battles and shock and grief.

            “No. We just—stared at each other. I saw him on his roof and he saw me on mine and we just—stared. And it was strange, because I should have been happy that we aren’t really fighting anymore, but all I could feel when I was looking at him, was sad.”

            “He’s a different person. The Jason you knew died. That’s sad Bruce.”

            “I did that to him.”

            “No,” Clark said firmly, clutching Bruce a little too tightly. Bruce was still crying, wetting Clark’s shirt, soaking his skin with the pain. Clark wanted to kiss it away. To make it all go away. But he didn’t know how. Sometimes there was no way out of the grief, but through it.

            “It’s OK to cry baby.”

            Bruce cried harder, hollow silent sobs that made Clark’s eyes water and his throat tight. When Bruce finished, it was late enough the sky was a deep bloated black. The stars were all but smothered by the smog. But that was home. That was Gotham.

            “You want to go inside?”

            Bruce nodded. Let Clark carry him. Said nothing.

            There were times, huge spans of time, where Clark forgot how breakable and soft Bruce could be. How big of a heart he had beneath all his layers of protection and barbs for enemies. And then, then he would leave a sticky note with a penned heart for Clark. Or he’d sit up on his roof and cry like a baby because his son had been murdered and evil people existed in the world.

            Clark was never more grateful for Bruce’s sticky notes, then in those quiet moments where Bruce let Clark make love to him. Where Clark kissed blotchy eyes and a damp nose and ignored the tears that leaked out still when they’d finished and were in a sweaty heap.

            Clark had never been more grateful for a sticky note in his whole life.

            “Sleep,” he whispered, kissing Bruce’s temple, swiping away more tears. Bruce’s eyes slipped closed, his breathing deepened, and Clark held him close, whispering a few promises of his own.  

             If he could write his own sticky note love letter, it would have read, _I will never leave you._


End file.
